That evening, as a Grecian sunset painted the sky pink and gold, my phone pinged. I’d allowed Iris to forward specific emails. This one was from Chloe — a sprawling, unhinged manifesto of victimhood.

You’ve ruined us, you selfish, vindictive old woman. We’re drowning. Austin is having panic attacks. I had to sell my bags just to pay the first month’s rent you extorted from us.

You’re destabilizing your own grandchild’s life. We cannot survive this. You are a monster.

I read it twice. A ghost of my old guilt tried to claw up my throat. I looked at the diamond still sparkling on my finger.

I typed one measured reply:

Chloe, you aren’t surviving. For the first time in eleven years, you’re actually living. Adults work to keep a roof over their own heads. That’s not a punishment.